


Love-lies-bleeding

by lanyon



Category: Metamorphoses - Ovid
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-15
Updated: 2010-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:45:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gods and men are not so different. They have greeds and needs that seethe and swell exponentially with continuing deprivation. Gods have other means at their disposal and yet, and yet, it all amounts to the same thing. Stand and deliver. Your wife or your life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love-lies-bleeding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vissy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vissy/gifts).



**Persephone:**

When mortal men are drunk, they think that they are gods. You may be of divine stock but you still have hearts that beat and bleed. It is glorious to watch you beat and bleed.

Are you sitting comfortably?

We shall begin.

 **one.**

Their eyes meet across a crowded pasture. Pirithous is brave and beautiful and a consummate cattle-rustler. Theseus, demi-god, twice-fathered, is destined for greatness. It is a match made in the heavens.

Theseus leans against a poplar tree (she doesn’t seem to mind) and raises an eyebrow. His cheeks are flushed with the thrill of the chase.

“Those are my cattle,” he says, as though he is not armed and dangerous, as though he has not pursued Pirithous all this way, full of fight and fury.

“Fine beasts,” says Pirithous, slapping the nearest cow on the rump, much to the poor beast’s grunting surprise.

“Are you taking them for a walk?” Theseus looks around this unknown land, miles and miles from home.

Pirithous grins, wicked hero-glint in his eyes. The boy loves a challenge.

“I’ll have to fight you. Perhaps kill you.” Theseus grins, too. He unsheathes his sword.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.”

“Don’t you know who I am?”

“Well.” Pirithous half-closes his eyes and, in an instant, his sword is at the ready. “A farmer, I should say, to judge from these creatures.”

Theseus raises his sword and steps forward. He touches the sword-tip to the base of Pirithous’ throat. “And to judge from this sword?” He draws it up and down and it is so very tempting to scratch Pirithous, just a little, just to see a thin trickle of red crawl down over that too-perfect, too-unscarred skin.

Pirithous swallows but he is still smiling. “A king, I should say. A nobleman, at the very least, who will look back on this whole affair and laugh heartily.”

It is a lucky guess on Pirithous’ part, Theseus will maintain. Pirithous does not know Theseus. Not yet.

He does not know that Theseus has been stopped dead in orbit because there are stars in his eyes. He does not know that they will become inseparable, out of necessity and out of adoration. He does not know how it will end. He does not know that it is set in stone (and his name shall live forevermore).

 **Persephone:**

An aside: I visit him. He does not age, lucky, unhappy mortal, and he has the best seat in the house.

 **two.  
**  
When Theseus is a boy, he is a great one for bedtime stories. His mother puts him to bed with tales of heroics and love and great, sweeping change and Theseus loves every one of them.

She tells him of Narcissus, that man so beautiful that he might make goddesses yearn and nymphs weep. She tells him how Narcissus fell in love with his own reflection, in the still waters of a remote pool, and how he pined to death, exhausted by his own perfection, to a chorus of crickets and of breaking hearts.

Theseus learns always to sail stormy waters, to avoid the seeming calm.

She tells him of Artemis, caught unawares by Actaeon’s wandering eye, and how he was turned into a stag, fine as any that adorned Pittheus’ table or wall. Oh, the chase; the heart-pounding pursuit as Actaeon’s own hounds hunted him and ripped him limb from limb. Ah, to bite the hand that fed them, though it had become a mostly shapely hoof; no wonder the dogs howled in despair.

Theseus learns never to be the hunted, always the hunter.

She tells him of Niobe, foolish girl, who cast aspersions on Leto’s very reputation. Do not mock goddesses; hubris is a death sentence. Apollo and Artemis slaughtered fourteen and their father killed himself and Niobe was ankle-deep in blood and children with unseeing eyes, statuesque for an eternity.

Theseus learns that goddesses were not worth killing oneself over.

Thoroughly overstimulated, the child begs for more and his mother, driven to distraction, tells him about the rock under which his father has hidden his birthright, in the hope that he will exhaust himself in the attempt to dislodge it.  
 **  
Persephone:  
**  
You are a fool. One cannot steal what is already stolen.  
 **  
three.  
**  
It is bad luck to wear red to a wedding, Pirithous supposes, now that his muscles are aching and his skin is drenched with crimson Centaur-blood and the air is thick with the scent of copper and death.

Theseus has found a flagon of wine from somewhere. He must be blessed by Dionysus, indeed. He touches his forehead to Pirithous’ brow and growls, low in his throat. This has been quite the party. Heads will roll.

Hippodamia is a radiant bride. Therein lies the problem. She is glowing a little less now, of course. She is bedraggled and her dress is torn and her headdress is lying in shreds, the flower petals are helpless innocents in the mud. Love-lies-bleeding. Love lies dead.

Theseus’ hand gropes for Pirithous’ fingers and he squeezes them mercilessly, the corner of his mouth twisted in a sneer.

“You laid so much to waste,” says Pirithous. He does not wince. He does not look away from Theseus’ eyes.

“It could have been worse.”

Pirithous looks around. Here comes the bride but no. Centaurs galloping and grasping at every woman in sight. Such barbarians. Pirithous appreciates theft but this has been such ham-fisted burglary. If he were to steal a wife, he would do it in style. Someone of high birth, not cloud-born, not head in the clouds. If he were to steal a wife, he would not be so crass as to bleed on the centrepiece and die in the aisle.

“How so?” he asks. He is scarred now. Acquaintance with Theseus is not without its risks. Pirithous gazes down at some Centaur’s body, Aphareus, perhaps. It is difficult to tell now that he or it is mangled, bloody and torn almost in two; half a man and half a horse.

“Had Eurytus laid a finger on you,” says Theseus. He pauses. He swallows a mouthful of wine. He is high on bloodlust, a little dazed, too, and his hair is matted with dried blood (unlikely to be his own). “He would have departed for the Underworld morsel by morsel.”

He grins. His teeth are stained red (again, it is unlikely to be his own blood). There is no doubt in Theseus’ mind that he and Pirithous are unlike any others; two men in one and a slight against Pirithous is a grave injustice against Theseus.

“Had he laid a finger on me-” Pirithous shrugs. Piece by piece to the Underworld seems a fair price; peace by peace.

“Have Centaurs always been so disagreeable?”

Pirithous laughs and gestures. “Their entrails cover the walls. It is hard to imagine them any less agreeable.”

Theseus takes a few steps away and drives his sword into the neck of a prostrate Centaur. He looked at Pirithous, challenging him to say a word, but there is nothing Pirithous can say, not when his own hands are aching and throbbing and he wants to wrap them around a Centaur neck and snap it. There are none left to kill. Eurytus still lies in a heap, strange body bent at stranger angles, shards of wine bowl embedded in his skin and hide.

Pirithous stretches, fingertips straining towards the sky, which is strangely clear and peaceful. Cloud-born indeed. All of the clouds are hiding in shame (so much for his half-brothers). Not far from where he stands, two Centaurs lie, entwined, a man and a woman, caught in some eternal embrace. They both look strangely restful, in spite of the spear wounds. This is to have and to hold and Pirithous can only wonder at the state of matrimony.

“You and I are not destined to lead quiet married lives,” announces Theseus from yards and yards away, admiring the work of his oaken club which has reduced so many bones to dust.

Pirithous is thoughtful, regarding his wedding feast, and Theseus so far away.

“Or we are not destined for quiet weddings, at least.”  
 **  
Persephone:  
**  
The jealousy of mortals is but a mere echo of the envy of the gods. See pretty little Minthe who thought to tempt my husband. Do you see? Her leaves stain the heel of my boot and victory has never smelled so sweet.  
 **  
four.  
**  
It is a plan that cannot fail. They shall marry two daughters of Zeus. They are ten a penny. One cannot turn a corner without tripping over a daughter of Zeus, be she goddess or mortal, nymph or muse. Pirithous and Theseus are spoiled for choice.

Theseus will take Helen and Pirithous will take Persephone. It will not be like Hippodamia or Phaedra; there will be no nuptial-associated slaughter. They envisage some quiet wedding, something tasteful. They will father grandchildren of Zeus.

Taking Helen is easy; walking on eggshells and dodging Dioscuri. Persephone presents more of a challenge but Theseus knows his way around the Underworld. They will be thieves in the night. The goddess will come quietly, if she knows what is good for her. It should not be too difficult to convince her. She is betwixt and between at the best of times. A goddess fallen between two stools. It is unseemly. It is a kindness to walk into the Underworld and take her hand and lead her away. This will be a glorious victory. This will be no Eurydice, lost to the gloom because of a stray, unguarded look.

Hades, by any standards, is an imposing figure. He is cloaked in shadows and his eyes, blacker than death, are piercing. It is not light. It is unlight. It is judgment and punishment because, in this realm, Hades is judge, jury and executioner.

Shall I feed you to my dog?

Cerberus’ teeth would be a mercy. Hades does not know mercy. It is a foreign word. It is less than meaningless. Persephone stands still, like a statue, at her husband’s right hand and she smiles and she is no longer a daughter of Zeus.

She is the Iron Queen.

She is an abduction too far.

 **Persephone:**

Gods and men are not so different. They have greeds and needs that seethe and swell exponentially with continuing deprivation. Gods have other means at their disposal and yet, and yet, it all amounts to the same thing. Stand and deliver. Your wife or your life.

I shall tell you a story. Yes. Another one. You have time.

Zeus spies Callisto, Artemis’ attendant and he longs for her. Golden rain or swans or snakes; none of these will succeed. Artemis, though, Zeus’ lovely daughter, who was born with thighs pressed together. Yes, he will take Artemis’ form. Part those thighs, Callisto. Admit one, admit this one. He is your king. In this shape, you prefer him to himself. It delights him.

It is no shame. It happens to the best of us.

Are you sitting comfortably? I have so many stories to tell you.

Gods and men are not so different, you see. When gods are drunk, they think they are mortal men.

**Author's Note:**

> Enormous thanks to my wonderful friends Del, Michelle and Nol, who cast an eye over this. Any mistakes are entirely my own.


End file.
